It shot me straight back to my college years of working at the great Westwood Book Store, in UCLA’s nearby Village. It wasn’t the biggest, but it was hands-down the best; also the smartest and the most accommodating, making it the hangout spot of every writer worthy of the name. .

Ray came in all the time, on the bus of course, sometimes bringing one or more of his tow-headed little girls with him. Since it was my job to take the day’s mailings to the Post Office every afternoon, I used to grab one of these sweet, chattering little ones to take over with me. It gave their father time for writer gossip and for the occasional knotty question, since in the late 1940s and early 50s, not even Ray envisioned the Internet. . (If I’m wrong about that, I’m sure you’ll show me where.)

So I remember very well the time we had one day, verifying for him exactly the degree at which paper burned: 451 Fahrenheit.

I’m sure, as it’s been written, that “he verified it with his local fire department.” I also remember the redoubtable Margaret Winkler and the owner, Jimmy Hakes, pulling down one book after another to give Ray exactly the information he needed. You don’t forget something like that, any more than you could forget the steady, unvarying warmth of the man himself.

Loved reading even more details on this story I grew up with and it’s a point of pride for me that YOU helped him uncover that fact which became the title of a legendary book. I read his short stories starting at age 12 and was engrossed by how he could make the ordinary so terrifying. In my high school English class during silent reading, I got to the end of a particularly tense short story which made me gasp and toss the book off my desk. (now THAT’S effective writing!)